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of our office. Through the open window we could hear the Mayor’s plan for turning a murder scene into a money-maker. He was confident that Mrs. Santy’s grisly death would add thirty percent to Shadow Play’s resale value.

    “The newly rich get turned on by tragedy,” Gil told Mrs. R. “The more violent, the better. You might want to leave a couple bloody handprints on the wall. . . .”

    I needed a drink but opted instead for a dose of caffeine and Peg Goh’s common sense. Plopping onto a stool at her counter I said, “Give me the strongest thing you got.”

    She did and then listened to my tale of woe. Peg shook her head.

    “Gil’s wrong. Nobody wants to live in a haunted house. They only want to gawk at it. And there will be a lot of that. I’ll bet the Reitbauers’ neighbors will think about selling once the new traffic pattern sets in.”

    Why hadn’t I thought of that? People moved to Shadow Point because they craved privacy. Drive-by ghouls would drive them right out. I rushed back to the office and had my receptionist run a reverse look-up on the Reitbauers’ neighbors. Happy prospecting ahead.

    Jenx called shortly after noon.

    “Good news, for a change: Edward Naylor wants this nightmare to end. He’s going to take both bodies back to Canada as soon as Crouch releases them.”

    “When will that be?”

    “Maybe as early as the end of business today. Crouch is doing Mrs. Santy’s autopsy now. Her husband’s body is already cleared for departure.” I could hear Jenx shuffling papers. “I’m going to the coroner’s office later to get the report. Always a pleasure to witness his distaste for lesbians. But he prays for us.”

    “He told you that?”

    “Oh yes. When Crouch came to Noonan’s studio to see Santy’s body, he announced that he prays for all lost souls. And he looked my way.”

    “Last night did Edward Naylor mention anything about—oh, I don’t know—a lawsuit?”

    “Not to me. He was a quiet, cooperative guest. Even managed to thank us for our hospitality.”

    “You did him a favor.”

    “Maybe you can do your local police a favor: Brady wants to borrow Abra this weekend.”

    “That would be doing me a favor.”

    Jenx explained that Brady thought Abra could teach Roscoe a thing or two about purse-snatching.

    “Are you trying to corrupt him?”

    If Roscoe sees how she steals them, maybe he’ll learn how to recover them.”

    I reminded Jenx that Abra’s purse-snatching days were over. She was in recovery.

    Jenx said, “She grabbed that purse at Shadow Play, didn’t she?”

    “I’d prefer to think she retrieved it.”

    In any case, I agreed to bring Abra to the station. Always happy to be of public service, especially when it earns me a dog-free day. I felt a pang when I remembered that Chester had his own training program in progress. It wasn’t exactly guilt gnawing at me. After all, Chester is eight years old, and I’m an adult. An adult who’s going to end up paying him to be my houseguest. My real concern was how to amuse Chester if I couldn’t foist him off on Abra.

    As the afternoon wore on, Mattimoe Realty hummed with tourists dazzled by fall colors and Lake Michigan’s broad sandy shore. Jenx called again at 4:30; I hadn’t yet taken a break.

    “You can look for Magnet Springs on the news tonight,” she said and hung up.

    What the hell was that about? I cursed her in three languages—the only foreign words I know—and went back to work.

    Odette burst into my office without knocking.

    “Guess who just called?”

    “Please tell me it wasn’t my mother.”

    “It wasn’t your mother. It was Mr. Reitbauer.”

    “Is he suing us?”

    “No! He apologized for canceling the contract. But he said he defers to his wife in such matters.”

    “His child bride, you mean.”

    Odette perched on the corner of my desk in that eager, bird-like way of hers. “I picked something up in his voice, Whiskey. . . .”

    “Your